Goatswood Blue: Reloaded
by Jo Nahmanaick
Summary: Jonah Aickman dreams of a different life, but his prospects of changing the life he lives seem bleak at the moment. Can he summon up the courage to change it all?
1. Chapter 1

**Hello, everybody! Yes, this is Goatswood Blue, but rewritten to be more the story I originally had in mind. I was not happy with the original story, but I won't bore you with my dilemmas. It follows the same plotline and the characters are the same, but with extended scenes and, eventually, changes in the chronology, and new scenes; well, a more and better elaborated story. Also, I posted it on the "M" category so it will not be confusing to find both stories and because it could become a little sexier, but I've consider the possibility of attaching it to the original one until the storylines converge so I can eventually wrap up what's already done, and also as a way to have people choose to re-read or stick to the original. I also hope for longer chapters, making it a "shorter" story. So let me know (I could use the tip!)**

**Warning: Prologue doesn't really change, so you can skip to chapter one which features the first changes.**

Prologue

_In which the boy Jonah relates the current states of affairs in his life at the beginning of our story._

That morning, I arrived to the classroom early, and as always, settled down quietly, even meekly, as had become my manner in the last couple of years. I heard muffled laughter and murmurs, noticed the quick glances -even some glares- and then more laughter here and there. I was in no way conceited, but I knew it all had to do with me; it just felt that way. I looked up to the blackboard and there it was, the reason for this small ruckus. In big bold letters was written: "Jonah Aickman is going to hell!" When my classmates realized I had seen it, laughter bursted.

"A-men, brother!", somebody said aloud and the others thought it hilarious. I saw amongst the crowd a few sympathetic faces, but no one came after me when I just picked up my books and lunch and left the classroom, blushing, embarrassed. I would wait outside until class started. I wondered, if I were a different person, what would I had done? Go firmly up front and erase it, or pick up a fight? Then again, if I were a different person, none of this would had happened. Hypocrites, more than half of them had been with their families to my house, to see the "marvels" and "make contact", as it was called. Well, damn them to hell. They were only a clique, but that little fraction that delighted in tormenting me made themselves felt like a quake. The others were a silent, or indifferent, majority.

Most kids at school treated me fairly, were even nice, but generally they wouldn't get close to me, I could feel their discomfort around me, because they didn't know how to treat me. Some were even fearful, as if I could read their minds and curse them if I were displeased or just burst into a malevolent spree and kill them all with my stare. But to be fair, I didn't reach out to anyone either. I was naturally shy, but that wasn't the matter; at that moment I had the notion on my head that I couldn't have friends. Even with all this, after the bell rang and the teacher had come into the classroom, I made myself go back inside and sit at my desk.

I heard a whisper coming from my left side. "Hey, Aickman...", I heard my neighbor from the desk in the next line calling.  
>"Don't mind 'em, these shits-for-brains; they're just a bunch of apes!"<br>I nodded in agreement stupidly, half stunned at the unexpected support as I was, with a lopsided grin.

The "Jonah Aickman is going to hell!" thing was a very stupid prank, but it was another drop of water hitting the rock. I was tired of all that.

That evening at the kitchen table, during dinner, Ramsay Aickman noticed my aloofness and gloom, not that I was usually cheerful around him,but he noticed I wasn't been a good audience to his talking.

"Jonah. Jonah!"  
>"Yes, sir."<br>"Son, what's the matter?", he asked in a tone that sounded more business-like than concern. Every time he called me "son", I wished he bited his tongue.  
>"It's...it's school sir."<br>"Trouble with your studies, your teachers?", he asked dutifully.  
>"No, sir."<br>"Then what is it?"  
>"Someone wrote on the board that I was going to hell..."<br>"And you worry about that? Pay no mind...", he easily dismissed my worries.  
>"But..."<br>"Besides", he interrupted me (why would I think I could share my troubles with Ramsay Aickman?), "this it's going to be your last semester at school."

Well, that was news to me; I had another year before graduating, he must have had it wrong.  
>"I graduate next year, sir."<br>"You don't need anymore schooling if you're going to be my apprentice full time," Ramsay Aickman informed me.

The back of my mouth dried, the air from my lungs coming up hot, and I could feel the blood draining from my face. Not that I would miss the pranks, the tauntings and the name calling, but school was an outlet and a ticket out of this house, this life. Until now, I still clung to the thin hope that I would be going to college. It didn't had to be Yale; actually, if it could be out-of-state, the better for me. But Ramsay Aickman had already decided my future; I was going to become a mortician. And in this house, his one-way, conceited, stubborn decisions were law. Just like that...  
>I was seventeen, almost a grown man, but wanted to cry like a child. I felt my future slipping from my fingers like grains of sand. Nonetheless, I kept my mouth shut and stuffed myself enough with food so that it would be convincing when I excused myself from the table because I was full. There was no point in arguing, I always lost, but I had enough pride left in me to not beg and plead.<br>"Something you want to say, Jonah?", he said with a stone face, but I saw the glint of relish in overpowering me in his eyes.  
>"No, sir, I'm good", I answered with all the dignity I could muster.<br>"Good; that's what I thought.", he casually dismissed my answer.  
>I rose from the table with the excuse of getting ready for that night's session, scraped the left overs to the trash can, left the dish on the sink, and made a beeline for my bedroom.<p>

* * *

><p>I let the warm water fill the bathtub until about half its capacity, and after undressing, climbed into it. With my hands I scooped some water and poured it over my head, trying to disperse that feeling of impending doom I felt. My stare was fixated blankly on the water, without really seeing it, and the droplets of water rushed from my hair down to my face. I felt their warmth down my cheeks, my sight blurred, and I couldn't tell where the water ended and my tears had begun.<p>

* * *

><p><strong>And... Back in August GB reached it first year on the archives! Wow, how time flies!<strong>


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter I  
><em>In which we first witness the capacities our protagonist possesses.<em>

The room was fixed up by sundown. Those dreadful curtains, faded and depressing, already cloistered the room, making it feel like the inside of a shoe box. The camera was set directly towards the seat I was to occupy later, so I would be photographed like the side-show freak I sometimes felt I was. Now, Aickman wanted to add another night to our "spiritual evenings"... I'd rather drink lye.

In my bedroom, perched with my leg up on my windowsill, I watched as the last lingering light faded from the sky, and I wanted to fade and disappear with it. Still, I got up from where I was, combed my hair -although I didn't know for what purpose, it always got disheveled anyway-, and fastened my tie. I heard automobiles parking in front of the house, tonight's guests had arrived.

I had to will myself to leave my room and head downstairs to meet and greet as polite society expected. I walked the hallway as one awaiting execution, hoping for a last minute pardon from the governor, but I knew that wouldn't happen when judge, executioner and governor where all one and the same, namely Ramsay Aickman.

"Ah, here's our wonder boy!", said Ramsay Aickman, the ring master, to our incoming guests, as I walked down the staircase.  
>"Jonah, dear", said Mrs. Greer, the grieving widow that had come yet for the third time in six months seeking our services, as she approached to hold my hand in her matronly one. "We are ever so grateful, Evan and I. We brought you a little something", she added, handing me a long, narrow box, the look on her face indicating me to open it right there and then. It was a new tie. Hooray...<p>

"Thank you very much, ma'am", I muttered embarrassed.  
>"Mr. Aickman, I hope you don't mind I bought a special guest", the lady gracefully asked.<br>"Not at all", replied Aickman, equally courteous, as Evan, Mrs. Greer's adult son, escorted a stunning middle aged woman into the house. She looked the way you expected motion pictures star to look, but on closer inspection, there was something too made up and exaggerated about her appearance. She wore the standard double-strand of pearls and fur stole of elegant, modern women, but her bobbed hair ended in crunched, stiff curls just above the jawline, her lipstick and rouge where a few notches away from clownish and her perfume assaulted my nostrils.

"This is Madame Olga Simeonova, Russian expatriate and psychic medium", Mrs. Greer introduced her to us. At the mention of the Madame's alleged psychic ability, Aickman's face sombered for a second, but in a moment he was his good-host persona again. Besides, her gift had yet to be demonstrated in front of us. Because Aickman and I knew the real deal -heck, I was the real deal-, he and I were quite skeptic of anyone claiming any supernatural ability in an age when you could push fakes and phonies away with a shovel.

Now, what really caught my attention was what - or rather, who- happened next. A girl about my age trailed behind Evan and Madame Simeonova.  
>"This is my ward, Florian Braganza", announced the Russian aristocrat. The girl greeted with a nod and a generous smile towards the general direction, but didn't say a word.<p>

Florian Braganza looked like a living doll. When she crossed the threshold, I actually thought she was a younger girl tall for her age, but that was because of her general appearance. She had unfashionably long hair for a girl her age, caramel color with red undertones, that curled at the end and topped with a cloche hat. Although her clothes had a modern flair, she wore a simple short sleeved chestnut blouse with a flax colored skirt several inches under her knees. For adornment she only wore a demure pearl necklace. Her shoes had heels but weren't extravagant. Her face was round, with a small mouth but full lips. But her eyes... striking; very big and very, very dark. They shone with a mischievous streak all of the sudden, then it disappeared. I knew I was staring, but she looked up at me a second too soon before I could turn my head away. Too late, but I pretended to be looking away anyways.

"Shall we?", Aickman invited, signaling with his arms the way to the séance room. Everybody took a place at the table, I sat last.

Aickman took a box of matches from his pocket, stricked in on, and lighted a slim candle he had brought from the other room. With it, he lighted the three pillar candles on each of the two corner tables in opposite ends of the room, then he killed the electric lights and went to stand right next to the camera.

Florian Braganza seemed amused; she leaned to whisper something I couldn't hear to Madame Simeonova, but the lady put her finger to her own lips and nodded her head once in a brisk and severe gesture.

"Join hands, please. Let's try to breathe at the same time. Leave out any mundane thoughts." I had officially began the seance with the usual formula, and then caught a glimpse of Florian lowering her head, biting her lower lip, trying to hide a smile, or perhaps suppressing laughter?

"Concentrate in the here and now." I had closed my eyes, this is done for two reasons; it helps you as a medium to concentrate, but it also invites other to stay quiet. I opened one eye enough to look under my lashes and confirm everybody was still and quiet but found this Florian girl staring at me while everyone else had their eyes closed. I completely opened my eyes to look at her, and she winked at me rapidly. With a smirk, she stuck out her tongue, then closed her eyes. Now that everyone seemed to be concentrating and was breathing at the same time, I began my work.

Silence. Silence and stillness in the room, and heat from the candles, but within myself, turmoil and unwillingness. I was still completely put off by the blow Aickman gave me at dinnertime and the bleak expectations for my future. I inhaled deeply through my nose and released it through my mouth, audibly enough that Evan Greer got a little startled. He was used to seances by now, but apparently he still got creeped by them... It would just be better if I just did this and get it over with.

One, then another deep breath.  
>"Come forward Thomas, your beloved family is waiting for you."<p>

A third deep breath, opening and closing my eyes again.  
>"Come forward Thomas, reach upon us, we call with open hearts and pure thoughts and the deepest respect", I said almost in a whisper.<p>

A fourth, longer, deeper breath. Open, close. I felt the cold, my brain resting on clouds, and I opened my eyes. _They_ were there, pacing in the room, around the door, and in the hallway. I closed my eyes again.

It was difficult to place Thomas Greer's energy, his wave length competing to come through amid the demanding voices and the wandering shadows, those of the bounded. Everytime it had become more difficult, specially in the last couple of months, to contact the dead, but Thomas Greer was strong and found his way through. I had first recognized him because of the different vibration of his energy from the others, and the colors of his aura also differed. After I had figured him out, I could see him as clearly as if I was seen a living person. He came forward, took the lead, his energy overpowering mine and taking over; the best way I can describe it is like being set aside inside your own body. A state of semi-possession was not really necessary to communicate with spirits, but I had virtually invited him in and he was a pulsating, dominant presence and I had to allow him to take over for the sake of Aickman's research shit. I hated not to be able to choose to allow this; I hated not being able to command my voice, my body; my consciousness blended somehow into his. I felt abused.

* * *  
>I returned from my deep slumber, and opened my eyes almost as soon. I wouldn't remember much of it for a while, and then in a fractured way. Aickman had moved my chair so he could face me, holding my wrist to feel my pulse.<br>"Can you hear me?"  
>"Yes."<br>"What is your name?"  
>"Jonah Aickman."<br>"He's back and well", he announced to the group.

Mrs. Greer was patting her eyes with a handkerchief. Evan was working hard not to break down in sobs. Madame Simeonova was examining me intensely with her eyes, almost squinting to focus, but Florian Braganza was looking downwards to the table, busy trying not to snicker.

* * *  
>The Greers retired home early -this was the Greer's third visit, and I hoped the last. They were nice people, though- but Madame Simeonova stayed behind, she said she wanted to talk "spiritual matters" with Aickman.<br>"Jonah, take Miss Braganza to the kitchen for some refreshments."  
>"Yes, sir", I said obligingly, "Please come this way, Miss Braganza."<p>

I was as conscious of her presence as she followed me down the hallway to the kitchen as I was self-conscious. I tried to appear tranquil and relaxed as I led the way to the kitchen but felt I was failing miserably. I was tired and weak and slow, and a question nagged at the back of my head, what was she thinking about me?

When we got to the kitchen, I pulled out a pitcher full of iced tea from the ice-box. (Mrs. McKinney, our daytime housekeeper, always left a pitcher full for me before she left for the day, specially on Fridays, when the spiritual sessions would take place. Mrs. McKinney was originally from Georgia, that's why we always had around the house Southern delicacies and what she called comfort food. Two years ago, the doctor had told Aickman I was underweight for my age and height, but since Mrs. McKinney began working here, I caught on with other kids my age, even got some shape in my, um, backside.) I placed the pitcher on the table and plummeted into a chair at the kitchen table, I was still shaky after the whole séance affair.

"Miss Braganza, would you be so kind and serve the tea? I don't feel very well right now.", I asked not even embarrassed anymore, I only wanted to rest.  
>"Sure", she said, uttering her first words that evening, in a voice huskier than I would had imagined. "Where are the cups?"<br>"Up there in the left cupboard", I said pointing with my fingers to the air while I rested my head on the table. She poured in a glass and placed it in front of me.  
>"Thank you, Miss."<br>"Do you need anything else?"  
>"No, thank you."<br>"Good, then I'll be outside having a smoke." What? So much for the girl-doll! (I even pictured one of those porcelain dolls with baby features with a cigarette attached to its mouth.)

I lifted my head from the table to watch as she was pulling a silver case from her purse from which she extracted a thin, brown cigarette. She looked for her lighter and exited through the kitchen door. As she walked outside, in the place where she had been standing, the ghost of a woman stood now. The woman was grieving, I could tell, her affliction so deep, I felt a wave of pain crashing against my bones. Almost immediately I guessed who she was; same big eyes and full lips as Florian, the woman must had been her mother.

In a second, she was standing just before me, screaming, it looked, at the top of her lungs, although I couldn't hear a sound. Just as quickly she returned to her original place, now pacing anxiously, gesticulating as if arguing with herself until suddenly she stopped to look into my direction, took a step forward and covered her eyes with a hand. Her shoulders quivered, as if crying. Then, I couldn't see her anymore.

Lots going on... but at the moment I couldn't concentrate on any of it. I felt the kind of small tiredness you feel after crying. My mother had taught me to pray, as she had taught me to channel my mediumship, so I prayed to whatever god may listen, for Florian's mother's soul.

* * *  
>I went outside and found Florian exhaling the smoke of her cigarette, half hidden in between the slim trees in the backyard. She moved, and moonlight fell over her profile.<p>

"I brought you some tea. I hope it's not too cool here outside for you to drink it", I said handing her a glass.  
>She looked into the glass and murmured, "Funny, cold tea...", and grinned. "Thank you, you're a darling", Florian said casually. A rush of warm blood flushed my face. "Oh, you even got some color back on your face, Jonah; that's good. I can call you Jonah, right?"<br>"Sure, you can call me Jonah, if you wish", I replied trying to keep my cool.

"You really play the part", she said slyly, almost whispering, like sharing a secret, and flicking the ashes from her cigarette.  
>"What do you mean...? Oh."<br>"It's all right. It takes one to know another", she laughed.  
>"One what?"<br>"One _con _to know another."

It had pretty clear to me that she thought the seance wasn't real, but I hadn't expected a virtual confession to fraud. I didn't even know how to respond to that. People either believed or not, but they only had to seat at one of our sessions and be convinced... or not; it didn't matter, it was Aickman who always took care of criticism; I had never had to actively defend my gift before I opened my mouth to say something, but I could only chuckled in disbelief. Still I wouldn't be pulling out the I-saw-your-mother (or whom I thought was her mother) card. That was a sensitive matter.

"Well, I guess you are entitled to your own opinion, then", I said finally, perhaps a little too sharply.  
>"Oh... So you really believe all this is for real?", she asked, surprised. "Get out of town!" She laughed. "Then I would think you're entitled to your beliefs, then."<p>

Her reaction jaded me a little, but on second thought, it wasn't mockery, but rather authentic surprise.  
>"I'm not trying to convince you of anything, but I'm not a liar. I'm not a con artist. I am who I am and do what I do whether I like it or not", I said.<br>"I didn't mean to offend you, I'm truly sorry if I did", she apologized, still relaxed and without a trace of shame.  
>"No, you did not. I apologize if I came down too strong."<br>"It's okay", she said exhaling smoke again, "Do you want a cigarette?", she said, offering peace.  
>"No, thank you, I don't smoke. Besides, Aickman it's always telling me to stay... unpolluted."<br>"You refer to your dad as 'Aickman'?  
>"That's because he's not my real father. My mother married him when I was five."<br>"And your mother, where is she? I'm sorry, that was rude; I'm meddling!"  
>"It's alright, Miss Florian; my mother's not here because she died about nine years ago, when I was eight."<br>"I'm sorry to hear that... Mine died when I was twelve. I never knew my father."  
>"So, you've been under Madame's care since your mother passed?"<br>"If by 'under her care' you mean "stuck with her', then yes, almost", she said throwing away her cigarette and putting it off with the heel of her shoe a little too energetically.

"Why are you been so honest with me, about Madame Simeonova and you being con artists?" I had finally asked the question that floated around in the air.  
>"Because sometimes I can't keep my mouth shut! As you must have figured out already, I was convinced you were... <em>performing <em>back there."

She hesitated for a moment, then asked, "Please, could you keep it a secret? Please...?". She was now realizing the huge indiscretion she had committed.  
>"I know how to keep a secret, believe me, and this one will be kept", I said to her evident relief. I was in no position to judge her, I had a dirty little secret of my own.<p>

"I would love to think I don't care at all our little ruse was discovered, but right now I can't afford to... if I think twice about it."  
>"You would have your reasons, it's not my place to judge you. Actually, I'm not sure why, but I think I kind of understand what your going through. Never mind...", I said, discarding the thought before we dwelt further into the matter.<p>

She had put her glass on the ground and began untangling an old swing from one of the trees. "May I?", she remembered to ask halfway into the process, and I nodded yes. She continued, then put her right knee on the swing and pushed herself with the opposite foot.

"So, Jonah of Goatswood, what do people do around here for fun?"  
>"I don't know, go to the movie theater, sports, I guess... whatever people do for fun anywhere else..."<br>"And what do _you_ do for fun?"  
>"I read... a lot. I'm busy most of the time with school and work. I used to go swimming and sketch, but I haven't got much time for any of those lately..."<br>"Well, that's a darn pity! You should be out having more fun."  
>"Easier said than done..."<br>"Life's too short! Besides, I need someone to show me around town."  
>"Is that so?"<br>"Can't blame me for trying... But I mean it, you should have more fun now that you're young."  
>"I'll see what I can do, Granny Florian. And you, what do you like to do?"<br>"Let's see... well... I don't know... I think I like to do whatever comes along..."  
>"That's not fair! I told you what I like..."<br>"Okay... I like to take walks, I like to read novels and magazines, and I", she seemed to shy away for a moment but returned to her unabashed demeanor again, "I like to sing."  
>"To sing? What voice?"<br>"Contralto."  
>"Sing something."<br>I thought she would act coy and come up with a excuse not to sing right away, like most people do when they pretend modesty, but she stopped the swing and started humming in different tones, then sang something like this:

_"I hate to see that evening sun go down,_  
><em>I hate to see that evening sun go down,<em>  
><em>'Cause, my baby, he's gone left this town<em>  
><em>Feeling tomorrow like I feel today If I'm feeling tomorrow like I feel today I'll pack my truck and make my give-a-way...<em>"[1]

"Voilá!", she said making a grand gesture and taking a bow.  
>"That was pretty nifty", I complimented her with a small applause.<br>"Thanks a bunch, you make a lovely audience", she said still in her grand diva character.

At that moment the kitchen door flung open and Aickman casted his shadow over the kitchen door steps. "Come on inside, children, the ladies are leaving."  
>"Better not keep Nelly waiting...", Florian said taking up her glass from the ground.<br>"Who's Nelly?"  
>"None other than Madame Olga Simeonova, of course", she giggled.<br>"So, if she's Nelly, then who is Florian?"  
>"Clever boy!", she said, but didn't answer my question., only kept walking.<br>"What is your real name?", I whispered hurriedly before we got within Aickman's hearing.  
>She stopped to look at me real serious, as if I had asked something inappropriate, then that mischief of which she seemed to be full, flashed again fiercely.<br>"I might tell you one day." And just like that, she walked away.

_  
>[1]Opening lyrics to the song St. Louis Blues, by W.C. Handy, first published in 1914.<p> 


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter II  
><em>The perils of being a medium<em>

Now that Florian Braganza and Madame Simeonova had left, the house stood quiet. Without being asked, I immediately took up cleaning duties. I straightened cushions, picked up empty glasses and swept the floor. Yes, Aickman helped too, but he seemed deep in thought and kept a stone face. More than usual. I was working vigorously, still wired after my meeting with Florian Braganza.  
>"Good night, sir. I'm going to bed now", I said as soon as I was done, and started towards the stairs.<br>"Jonah, what were you talking about with that girl?" His tone was suspicious. Had he guessed what the ladies did for a living? Before I stalled thinking about the possibilities, I came up with a simple answer.  
>"Nothing important, sir. She wanted to know what people in this town do for fun. She had the notion that I could show her the town." Okay, that sounded pretty innocent and honest. It was the truth, after all. At least part of it, anyway.<br>"No, no", he said shaking his head, still pensive, "That's not going to happen. You keep away from those women. They're up to no good. Are we clear?"  
>"Yes, sir."<br>"Go to bed, get some rest", he said, as if I needed him to tell me I was tired! And yet again, he was raining on my parade... But I didn't feel hurt, I was actually curious. I climbed up the stairs wondering what had Madame Simeonova -or rather, Nelly- told Aickman.

"Madame Simeonova! More like Madame Fiddlesticks to me!", I heard him mumble to himself, and I almost laughed.

* * *

><p>Up in my room, I was perched again on the windowsill, wearing my pyjamas, looking at the full moon and raising my fingers towards the window so it would look like I was plucking the moon from the sky. I was tired, but didn't feel like lying down to sleep yet. I could hear distant music coming from some party down the street. I pictured myself arriving at a gay[1] party, with Florian at my arm, introducing her around, laughing, dancing, having a great time... some day, maybe. That girl had definitely left an impression on me. She was pretty, at least to me, seemed smart, and was, definitely, fun to be around. On the other side, if I were asked for a word to best describe her right now, that would be intriguing. It was funny how we got to be truthful about aspects of our lives but she wouldn't even reveal her name. So for now, I'll have to think about her as Florian. Florian-oh-Florian!<p>

And Madame Olga, what had she talked with Aickman to make him so upset? What did she wanted? Did it had to do with me? But then, why didn't she just approached me? Life shouldn't be this complicated... Florian doesn't seem to always get along with Madame Fiddlesticks either, but I wish I could be more like her; she seems lively when I usually feel like I'm something the cat dragged in...

Finally, I sat up on my bed with one knee bended up and a foot touching the ground, holding the cord of my bedside lamp. I turned the lamp off, and as soon as my eyes got used to the faint light coming from outside the window, I could percieve again the shadows roaming around my bedroom, lurking in the darkness, their presence feeling as solid as that of a living person. The anguish that rose on the air suffocated me, and then the mournful, heartfelt crying of a woman reverbarated through the hallway, but the spirits closest to me on the room where the angry ones.

"I've been waiting for you...", I said onto the darkness.  
>"Who do you think you are?", the spiteful voice asked in contempt of me.<br>"No one; I'm no one in particular", I answered trying to conceal my fear, in a dettached way. My own comment ringing me as sounding too true to my ears.  
>"Let us out of here! NOW!", growled the voice wasted no time in making its demand known.<br>"Please, please! Let us go. Where's the light? Where's the light of heaven? Oh, God!", wailed the spirit of the desparate woman on the hallway.

What could I tell a soul so desperate and afflicted? That everything was going to be alright, to have patience? I didn't even know if I could free them in this lifetime.  
>"I'm sorry..."<p>

As soon as I said that, a powerful blow threw me over the bed and I felt an arm pressing my neck down.  
>"HOW DARE YOU!", it growled again, and as I laid still held against my own bed, I felt as if long, sharp nails scratched deep into the skin of my neck, then suddenly, peace and quiet. No more wailing nor growling. No more anything, only the sound of crickets and some passing car down on the street. A breeze brought the sound of chatter. And me, holding my neck, feeling my own warm blood scaping through my fingers.<p>

I ran to the bathroom and checked the gashes on my neck, they seemed to run deep. I cleaned the area with hydrogen peroxide; it stung like hell, but still after cleaning, the gashes looked serious. I held a gauze to them, and it gradually turned red.  
>"Si-", I was about to yell for Aickman to come, but then I realized my wound had stopped stinging. I remove the gauze and saw no trace of the gashes, they had healed themself. I touched, and looked, and probed, but there was nothing on my neck, and the only prove that I'd been hurt at all was the bloody gauze and the stained neck of my pyjamas.<p>

* * *

><p>I was used to this peculiar visits every night a seance took place, ever since Aickman began his defiling experimentation with recently deceased corpses. Even if a seance was over for the night, there was a channel in me that was kept open, I think because of the intensity of their presence, their unfinished bussiness still pending. The first few times it happened, almost two years ago, I just couldn't sleep in my room; I left the house through the kitchen door and spent the night on the tool shed outside. But after that I gradually decided that it shouldn't be like that every time, so I developed a strategy to make them leave or at least keep them at bay. Since I could open my mind to chase and recieve the visitation of ghosts, I figured I could work with my mind to barr and block them out. I would lie on my bed with every limb relaxed, arms separated from my torso and legs apart, try to void my mind and conjure the feelings of harmony, love, and hope. It worked, and I would let this thoughts carry me away, until a figure appeared on my mind, but I suspect she really existed somewhere in this universe; it so just happens that I made contact with her. She stood in a place that was not a place at all, it was all but a big blur to me, but that didn't matter; she was there, and she was all light, and from her seemed to emanate all the goodness I tried to summon. She didn't say a word, ever, but she let me know that everything will pass, to keep my faith kindled like a candle because even only the smallest light broke off the darkness.<p>

I don't know who she was, and I don't feel like trying to know, I just accepted her as she is. She could had been a guiding spirit, an angel, my own mother... Maybe everybody had come to contact with her at some point, maybe she is one called by many names, be it mercy, hope, love, God, Holy Mother, Krishna, Isis... And then, without knowing when, I would fall asleep, as if cradled in her arms.

But that night I had decided to try to communicate with the lost souls visiting my bedroom; it hadn't gone well. Still, I hadn't lost hope of being eventually capable of helping them out, if only I could ovestep my fears. So I returned to bed, tuck myself in, and laid myself in _Her _arms.

[1] Gay: merry, the common use of the word during roughly the first half of the 20th century.


End file.
